This Side
by auri mynonys
Summary: GrimaEowyn drabbles based on Nickel Creek songs. Happy reading!
1. Bitter Strangers

**Title:** This Side

**Pairing:** Gríma/Éowyn

**Summary:** A series of short fics based on Nickel Creek songs. Trust me, it's a good combination.

**Rating:** PG, until my hormones dictate otherwise.

**Warnings:** Gríma/Éowyn. Don't like, don't read. All songs copyright Nickel Creek - not mine.

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_I've been thinking long and hard about the things you said to me_

_Like a bitter stranger_

_Now I see the long, the short, the middle, and what's in between_

_I could spit on a stranger…_

They didn't know each other, really, when either of them stopped to reflect on it. She only saw him, watching her, whispering to her Uncle, whispering - something. Something she didn't understand, or know. And he saw only her, her beauty, her adeptness with a sword, her cold pride and dignity, her sorrow and despair, and loved her for it - loved the living manifestation of everything he was not.

She spoke to him only when it was absolutely necessary, and then with as much venom as she could manage. He responded in kind, but his venom was different. His venom was seductive, warm and tempting, where hers was cold, cruel, sharp and fast. Both of them deadly, naturally. Venom was created to poison, to destroy, and thus it worked its slow death on both of them as time passed in the Golden Hall.

They behaved as if they knew each other intimately, and maybe they did, somewhere in the twisting corridors of their hearts; maybe words were unnecessary between them. Perhaps they simply _knew_. But that was doubtful. It was the unknown that made her fear him; it was the unknown that made him love her. If they became too familiar with one another, whatever was between them might melt away and disappear, and both of them feared that more than anything.

And thus they remained, simply, two bitter strangers.


	2. Speak

_And it's not me_

_Not my sanctity_

_These are my words to you_

_It's all clear when it's not from here_

_So clear… so I'll try not to speak_

His voice was his weapon, his only talent, the one thing he nursed and guarded with a fierce pride. If he chose, he could hypnotize almost anyone with his words. He had done so before, simply for the pure spite of having his way with someone else where typically he could not.

But to she, whom he loved, he rarely spoke at all. He did not want his voice, his hypnotic words, to taint her perfection. They were the only gift he had to bring her; he would not spoil such a precious reward by overuse. He wanted his voice to cast a spell over her, to create magic, to be a rare and precious thing bestowed upon her only when he was feeling particularly generous.

And he wanted, more than anything, for words to be enough. He had nothing else to offer such a one as she.


	3. Paradox

_There's a certain kind of pain that can numb you;_

_There's a type of freedom that can tie you down;_

_Sometimes the unexplained can define you;_

_Sometimes silence is the only sound…_

She saw him as a puzzle, as confusion, as a strangely complex creature in a world where complexity was not welcome. The Rohirrim were simple, straightforward people; things were the way they were and it was better they were left that way.

Such was the reason they feared him, she knew, and such was the reason he frightened and fascinated her at the same time. He was such a strange mix of shadow and light; of things beautiful and of things ugly and destroyed; of things lost and things newly discovered.

He was dark, darker than the Rohirrim, but he was intelligent, brilliant in his own way - an educated man in a world where education was rare and valuable. He survived in shadow but seemed to crave the light. He hid in the darkness of the corridors of Meduseld, but always, always seemed drawn to the candles - as a moth will be drawn to a fire.

His handwriting, his words, stunned Éowyn with their passion and glory. The way that he could weave them together to create something extraordinary was beyond the means of ordinary men, and the gift terrified and attracted her all at once. When he would speak to her, she felt as if she might swoon, but held back from such weaknesses. After all, he was Wormtongue, and he was, physically as well as spiritually, ugly and twisted and beyond repair. The Rohirrim had broken his soul and his dreams. He was the ultimate example of genius gone to waste in a place where no one understood.

It seemed, to her, as though he had lost everything in his life; had left behind all human emotions but for the most intense, love and hate. He had lost morality and decency, had lost hope and joy. All that was left was bitterness and rage, and a painful, aching longing for that which he had long ago left behind.

Yet, in him, she discovered things about herself - her own glory and strength, her beauty, her ability to be free. With him, she felt as though she found herself released, as though he knew her intimately and would let her be as she was.

She loved that feeling. But she would never admit it.


	4. This Side

_One day you'll see her and you'll know what I mean;_

_Take her or leave her she will still be the same_

_She'll not try to by you with her time_

_But nothing's the same, as you will see when she's gone…_

Éowyn brought Gríma to a new understanding of himself with every moment he spent with her. Perhaps that was why he loved her so much; because she was so unabashedly herself, and by being so, made him the same way.

From the first glance, he knew he loved her and would always love her; from the first word that passed her lips he knew he would treasure everything she ever would speak until the day he died; from the moment he first touched her, he knew he would never be capable of touching another and feeling _that way_ - the way that words, no matter how reliable they typically were, could never describe.

She lived in a world of light and swords and horses, of plains and freedom and the wild Rohirric wind. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly generous, she bestow upon him the briefest of smiles, and with that miniscule gesture would take him away to that beautiful place. In her precious world, he was so much more than a traitor, so much more than Gálmód's bastard, so much more than a lowly counsellor. There, he thought, he could be everything he'd ever dreamed, and more; he could be worthy of her love, when he stumbled into the brilliant light of her safe, secret place.

He craved those moments, awaited them ravenously, and wept when they were gone.


	5. Green and Gray

Green and Gray

_I want you to love me, he whispers, unable to speak_

_And he wonders aloud why feelings so strong make the body so weak_

_Then he awoke. Now he's scared to death somebody heard_

_If it was you, and you know her, please don't say a word…_

He dreamt, sometimes, when sleep finally overtook him in the depth of night's blackness. Always the dreams were of Éowyn, his fairest princess; always he was tortured by them.

He always saw her alone, standing tall and proud; but she was like a beautiful specter, naught but a fading memory of times full of wonder and glory. She was almost translucent to his dream-eyes, spun of a whirlwind of lost remembrances and broken hopes. Flickering before him, her eyes would finally meet his, and she would see him at last not as a monster, but as a man. And running towards her, desperate to cling to what was left of her, she would swirl away into the mist.

He would awaken then, stunned by the aching, acute pain left him, and he would close his eyes and weep until dawn.


	6. Seven Wonders

Seven Wonders

_When shadows fall, he'll close his eyes to hear the clocks unwind_

_Powerless to leash the hands of time_

_Kingdoms fall, the earth revolves, the rain will come this spring;_

_And nothing he could say would change a thing…_

Sometimes Éowyn suspects that Gríma did not begin as a man of wickedness.

Sometimes, Éowyn feels that she and he are not so different; that both feel the frustrations of time and human limitation wearing away at their already-fragile hopes and dreams. Both are powerless to stop the forces that carry them in some way, and both would do anything to gain that power that had been denied them.

Gríma lacked the power to control his body. From the day he was born he had been unhealthy and weak, and that lack of physical stamina had taken its toll. Unable to participate in any of Rohan's usual activities, he was abandoned by his peers and family and left to grow on his own. His intelligence more than made up for what he lacked physically, but intelligence was not a thing valued by the people he was born to. His mind had failed to impress the woman he sought as his bride; and he sought now to achieve that love he had long been lacking.

Éowyn lacked the power to protect and defend the land she held dearest to her heart. She was as passionate as any of the Riders were for Rohan, and yet, because of her sex, she could never give her life and shed her blood for it. It was not only this, but the way in which she could do nothing but bow to the wishes of the men whom she was forced to serve. She would be wed, and she would bear many children, and then she would die. Such a life held no satisfaction for Éowyn, and she battled it tooth and claw.

And both of them, powerless in their own way, had determined that they would be powerless no longer.


End file.
